


the grace in your eyes

by Kirjavi



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Fantasy, Original Character(s), Witchcraft, fairy tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-10 15:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8922910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirjavi/pseuds/Kirjavi
Summary: “Give me true love,” the maiden demanded, and internally, the witch groaned. True love. Again. This had to have been the third time this month at least. That’s all anyone wanted these days. True love. Why couldn’t they ask for something easy, like a hex on an enemy or a charm for wealth? Damned if she knew.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I spent a year of my life on this and it's barely 11k.  
> Merry Christmas, y'all.

_“Stand and face me, my love, and scatter the grace in your eyes.” ― Sappho_

~

“Give me true love,” the maiden demanded, and internally, the witch groaned. True love. Again. This had to have been the third time this month _at least._ That’s all anyone wanted these days. True love. Why couldn’t they ask for something easy, like a hex on an enemy or a charm for wealth? Damned if she knew.

The witch looked at the maiden, sizing her up. She was young, perhaps the same age as the witch herself. Pretty too, with her smooth, dark skin and rosy cheeks. Spells like this weren’t terribly hard, mostly belief-based with a backbone of magic. She was still going to charge her ridiculously high, though.

“You wish to find true love?” she asked, putting on her witchy voice (something scratchy and alluring; the mortals loved it).

The maiden nodded, something raw and angry and completely, utterly mortal in her eyes, and the witch curled her upper lip.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Meet me here on the dark of the next moon, the moment the first star hangs in the sky, and I will give you what you want.”

The maiden gave her a grateful, flashing smile and the witch hurried off as soon as was polite.

When she got home, she took a nice, long bath and scrubbed every inch of her body. She hated dealing with mortals.

~

A week later, the witch woke with an undignified shriek as her cat nipped her finger. She cursed the unlucky feline out, then looked up at the sky and cursed herself out.

In a messy flurry of woven skirts and sachets of herbs, she sprinted to the prearranged meeting place as fast as she could. She arrived in something of a mess and the maiden eyed her with insulting skepticism. She loathed those big brown eyes with a passion.

“Aren’t you a little–” the maiden began.

The witch raised a calloused hand, cutting her off, and pointed at the sky. The first star of the evening had just crested the horizon, and the light of the sun was still in the sky.

“Star,” said the witch, just a little out of breath. “I’m not late.”

The maiden rolled her beautiful eyes. “Do you have what I need?” If her brazen tone wasn’t covering up some disgustingly sticky emotional baggage, the witch would eat her boots.

“Yeah, yeah,” the witch mumbled, digging around in the multiple hidden pockets sewn into her skirts. 

“Aha!” she cried half a minute later, pulling a small bag from a hidden compartment near her left ankle. She passed it to the maiden, who regarded it with a skepticism that was rapidly becoming familiar.

“What’s this?” she asked.

The witch crossed her arms. “Powder of this, flakes of that. None of your business.”

“So what do I do with this?” The maiden’s facade was beginning to crack. She was beginning to think this was a bad idea. The witch could see it in her eyes.

The witch gave her the usual instructions: mix it with well-water drawn by her own hand, and take it as a tonic daily until it is gone.

“Then I’ll find true love?” she asked uncertainly. She sounded vulnerable now, and it made the witch uncomfortable. She had never been one for emotions, and this was no exception.

“Yes,” the witch said decisively. Like she said, these things were all based in belief. She dropped her voice down into the witchy range again. “Of course, there is a price.”

The maiden was already fumbling in her skirts for her purse. “What do I owe you?” she said, fiddling with her coins.

The witch could feel the cold sting of the metal from here and she shook her head. “I require,” she said slowly, drawing it out, “your firstborn child.”

She allowed a smile to curl over her lips. This one always got them. It was mostly for show, of course–she had neither the desire nor energy to care for a child, much less be desperate enough to demand one as payment. She had found, however, that if she asked for a child, people were much more eager to give her something else instead. She waited, deep blue eyes staring into brown, waiting for the customary expressions of shock and disgust to cross the maiden’s face.

Much to her surprise, the maiden burst into hearty peals of laughter that shocked the witch sure as a bell ringing in her face. “Lady Witch,” said the maiden, hands shaking with mirth as she tucked away her purse. “If it is _true_ love you are granting me, there will be no firstborn child for you to take.” She laughed again, and her face shone bright as the sun in the gathering gloom.

And with that, the maiden took her leave, leaving the witch behind standing in the clearing, eyes wide, jaws agape, listening to the wind in the trees and the crickets in the night and the thump, thump, thump of her heart.

“Shit,” whispered the witch.

~

Time passed. The witch went back to her witchy things, spending her time amongst the trees and green things rather than those who moved too fast and talked too loud. Autumn turned slowly to winter to that odd, half-melted place between winter and spring, and, as the witch firmly told her cat over and over again, she most certainly was _not_ mooning over the maiden _at all_.

“She’s a _mortal_ , for goddess’s sake,” she would scoff to herself, glaring at the copper leaves spiraling down outside her window.

“I couldn’t _possibly_ think this way about one of _them_ ,” she would tell her cat as they gathered snowmelt water in the frozen places of the woods.

“Anyways, when she said true love she probably meant a nice prince or a baron, not one such as me,” she would lecture the seedlings she was growing in the warmth of her house as she waited for the weather to warm again.

“It’s a pointless, meaningless infatuation, no matter how musical her voice or how pretty her eyes,” she told the frozen stars, lying flat on her back outside her house. “A simple crush, nothing more,” the witch said decisively. If she believed it, it would be true. That was how such things worked.

She went back inside and closed the cottage door to the frosted air. She went to her bed, and closed her eyes, and tried to ignore how the stars shining down through the skylight rearranged themselves, in her mind’s eye, into freckles and dimples and deep brown eyes.

~

The next day, she was awoken by her cat nipping her fingers again. She had a bizarre jolt of déjá vu as she reached up and stroked the cat, burbling soothing nonsense words to it that slowly faded away when she saw the way its fur prickled up and how it stared, fixed, at the door.

Slowly, so as not to make any undue noise, she made her way to the door and laid her ear against it, listening as hard as she could.

Rough, irritated breathing and fidgeting feet, crushing the groundcover plants she had seeded there between the cobblestones the summer before. As she listened, three angry knocks hammered against the door and she jerked her head back, startled.

Someone was here.

She snatched the bone dagger hanging by the door, fingering the blade and smiling when it nearly nicked her finger. The witch looked down at her cat, and it looked back up at her with ready eyes. She nodded to it and threw the door open.

The hisses, snarls, and curses lining up in her throat to come leaping out through her lips died an abrupt death when she saw who was at the door.

The maiden stood at her door, a chip as big as her eyes on her shoulder and a vengeful look on her face. Her fist was raised to knock again on the door, and upon seeing the witch she lowered it slowly, making it seem more of a threat than anything else.

“You,” growled the maiden. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

Dumbfounded, the witch stared at her as she surreptitiously set the dagger back where it belonged and shook her hair out of her face (suddenly, she was acutely aware of her bedhead and she _hated_ it). “How the–how the _hell_ did you find me?” she finally asked.

The maiden waved off the question and took a step forward, until she was nearly chest to chest with the witch. The witch leaned back and tried to ignore how she smelled of lavender and honey.

“Lady Witch,” she hissed. “The spell you gave me is absolute _rubbish_.”

Any warm, squishy feelings the witch might have harbored for the maiden took a backseat to her pride and she drew herself up to her full height, infuriated.

“Do you know who you speak with, mortal?” she spat, looking down her nose at the other woman. “I have walked with the spirits of the night and the stars. I have raised forests from the ground. I have twisted the minds of men until they bent to my command. Who are _you_ –” she paused here to cast a withering glare over her–”to tell me that _my_ spellwork does not work?”

The maiden was bold, and canny too if she knew how to find her, and she met her gaze with eyes every bit as angry as the witch’s. “It’s rubbish,” she insisted again, unafraid. “I want you to make me a new one.”

The witch curled her lip and stepped aside, reluctantly letting the maiden into her house. She had no other choice. She didn’t want the other woman going off in a huff and telling anyone else where she lived. This had been enough human contact to last her a lifetime.

“Very well,” she said grudgingly. “Come in, then.”

The maiden lifted her skirts delicately and stepped inside, glaring at the witch the entire time. The witch caught a glimpse of ankle, dark skin and sturdy bone, and, furious at herself, turned away.

Once the maiden was inside, the witch shut and bolted the door securely behind her and led her to the closest thing she had to a sitting room. The maiden gawked at the witch’s house as she led her through it, big brown eyes growing bigger as more and more was revealed.

The witch’s cottage was brighter than most people expected, all sunlight and, where the sun’s rays didn’t reach, clear blue witch-fire that burned with no smoke. The walls were hung with great swaths of fabric over white-painted walls, and everywhere, there were plants. Green growing things hung from the ceiling, climbed up the walls, and sprawled across the floor. The witch smiled, unbidden, at the maiden’s open amazement.

“Not exactly the witch’s lair of your tales, hmm?” asked the witch as she led her into her workspace. The witch moved aside some herbs, seeded in tiny pots on the counter, hitched up her skirts, and pulled herself up to sit on the counter. She gestured for the maiden to sit in the one lone chair next to the table, swinging her legs idly, and the maiden took her seat slowly, eyes wide.

The moment she sat down, the cat jumped up into the maiden’s lap, purring, and the witch frowned briefly. _Betrayed._

The maiden absentmindedly began to stroke the cat’s dark fur and, still looking around, said “You keep a very fine home, Lady Witch.”

A slight smile replaced the frown on the witch’s face (no one said she was immune to flattery) and she leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees. “So, you found out where I lived, trekked through acres of empty forest, somehow disabled the multiple traps I’d set to keep this very occasion from happening, and stole the affection of my cat all for a spell you _claim_ is faulty?”

The maiden frowned and sat up a little straighter, insulted. “No, I _know_ it doesn’t work,” she insisted, eyes flashing. “My cousin’s aunt’s friend from her sewing circle has a daughter whose beau’s sister said she bought a spell from you and she met her true love in a matter of days! It’s been _months_ , Lady Witch, and no man has drawn my eye!”

Something heavy sank in the witch’s belly and she looked down at her hands. “Ah,” she said quietly. _Man_. She mustered herself and said, “Well.”

“Well?” The maiden cocked a dark eyebrow and she felt herself fall, helplessly, just a little deeper.

“Well,” she said again, silently willing herself to gather her thoughts. “Everyone’s different, and true love–and I do mean _true love_ , not the on-the-spot infatuation your aunt’s friend’s whatever no doubt experienced after taking the tonic I gave her–takes time. Maybe if you just waited a little longer–”

“ _No_.” The maiden’s hand stilled on the cat and she looked, suddenly, afraid. “I can’t keep living like this, my parents don’t know and I _can’t_ –”

Ugly, mortal fear replaced the frustration on the maiden’s face and the witch winced. Ah, yes, _this_ was why she tried not to associate with mortals. Thank goodness she was not the emotional type.

“Calm down,” said the witch, in as gentle a voice as she could manage. “Why do you even want this spell to work so badly? You seem to be awfully concerned with marrying for someone so. . .”

“So?” challenged the maiden, eyes flashing dangerously.

“Headstrong,” said the witch.

The maiden looked away from the witch’s gaze, curling her fingers uneasily into the cat’s fur. “Lady Witch,” the maiden said, speaking to the cat rather than meeting the witch’s eyes.

“Yes?”

“What I am about to tell you cannot be repeated to anyone.”

“Of course,” said the witch, mildly affronted. “We witches do not speak lightly of secrets.”

The maiden nodded, still looking away. “You see, I–” she began. She stopped. Started again. “I–” she tried again. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The witch waited, patient. 

“My parents wish for me to be wed to a man,” she said delicately, “but I’m afraid I am not so inclined.”

The heavy weight in the pit of her stomach dissipated and the witch felt the hints of hope tingling through her veins as she asked, “Not inclined towards marriage, or. . . ?”

The maiden flushed a dusky red and she muttered, “I am not inclined towards men, Lady Witch.”

“Ah.” The witch looked down and tried foolishly hard not to smile. _So there’s a chance,_ she thought giddily to herself, then immediately scolded herself for that thought.

“So can you. . . help me?” the maiden asked. In that moment, she looked terribly fragile, her bravado from earlier melted away into something much flimsier.

Something hot and heavy swelled in the witch’s throat and it took her a moment to recognize it as sympathy. Sentiment. The urge to reach out and hold, to comfort.

She almost did just that, almost reached out and laid a hand on the maiden’s defiantly straight shoulders, but something held her back.

“What is it you want?” asked the witch, very gently. “Who do you want? Whoever they are, I will bring them to you.” She made this promise with a heavy heart, for she had a niggling feeling that if she swore to bring the maiden who she wanted, she would no doubt regret it herself. But a witch does not break her promise, and, irritatingly, the witch found that she would rather silently bear her own emotional pain than watch the maiden suffer through her own type of heartbreak.

The maiden’s hands shook ever-so-slightly, only partially hidden in the cat’s dark fur. She spoke too quietly to hear and the witch leaned forward. “What?”

“A husband,” the maiden whispered. “A man who treats me well and pleases my parents. Find me a husband.”

The witch swallowed hard, gulping down the foolish sympathy and sentiment that clogged her voice, and nodded. “Then it shall be done.” 

She offered a hand to the maiden almost brusquely, and after a nearly-imperceptible hesitation, the maiden took it. Her palms and fingerpads were calloused, and her grip was strong despite the uncertainty in her eyes.

“Thank you,” said the maiden. She smiled, although it didn’t touch her eyes.

The witch merely nodded, not entirely trusting herself to speak, and slipped off the counter. She landed with a soft thump on the floor, skirts swishing about her legs. The cat uncurled itself and leapt off the maiden’s lap as the other woman stood and wound itself about the witch’s legs. The witch reached down, stroked the cat from ears to tail-tip, and cleared her throat.

“Stay here for the night,” she offered out of nowhere. “It’s cold outside, and if you leave now, you’d be travelling by night. It’s best not to be in the forest by dark.”

“Thank you,” said the maiden. Her face was composed again, her armour carefully buckled back into place with no sign of the defenseless girl of before.

The witch checked the sky outside–late afternoon. She beckoned to the maiden, who rose, hands unconsciously straightening her skirts. “Come,” said the witch. “Help me with my duties.” She tried for a quick smile. “I might get some use out of you yet.”

~

The witch was exhausted. It had been ages since she had been so tired, so bone-breakingly numb with weariness that she was almost disgusted with herself.

The maiden’s spell had taken the rest of the day and much of the night to weave, and although the maiden was canny enough to bear some of the load (the witch did not know where the maiden had gained such knowledge of the magical arts; neither did she want to admit she was impressed), the witch had done most of the work and she was _tired_.

When it was done, the witch slumped down on the ground, suddenly boneless, and gulped a huge lungful of incense-laden air. Long since used to the fumes, she had enough energy to smile as the maiden imitated her and fell into a bout of coughing.

“So what now?” asked the maiden once she had caught her breath. Her eyes glittered under the layers of ash runes that covered her brow and the witch looked away, something swooping in the pit of her stomach.

“Well,” said the witch, and stretched idly. The maiden’s eyes followed the lines of her body as she moved, unbeknownst to the witch, and the maiden blushed ever-so-slightly. “The spell’s been cast, it’s fixed on you, and with any luck you’ll be married soon and comfortably ensconced in your marriage bed.”

“Brilliant,” said the maiden.

The witch opened her mouth to say something ( _you don’t really want this, do you?_ ) ( _you’re making a mistake_ ) ( _this isn’t right, I can_ help _you_ ) but she said nothing of what she was thinking and said, instead, “You will leave in the morning, then?” She did her level best to keep her voice neutral, but she feared she was not as good as keeping her emotions in check, it seemed, as she used to be.

“I suppose so,” the maiden said, although she didn’t sound too pleased about it.

And, goddess help her, but the witch said, “You’re welcome to stay longer, with me,” and could not–dared not–acknowledge why.

Something flickered in the maiden’s eyes, something warm and fragile and hopeful, and an answering hope kindled foolishly in the pit of the witch’s stomach.

The maiden blushed again, prettily. “That’s a very generous offer,” she said. A strand of her hair had escaped the scarf she used to tie it back and she tucked the stray curl back with long, elegant fingers. 

“Well?” asked the witch. She smiled awkwardly, but sincerely. “I must admit, despite you slandering my spellwork–” _oh goddess, stop now “_ –you’ve grown on me quite a bit.”

The maiden looked down, but she was smiling, just a little. Her teeth flashed as she spoke. “You’re very kind, Lady Witch” she said. She looked back up and took the witch’s hand. Her stomach swooped and the witch looked up slowly. The maiden’s eyes were the kind of deep, deep brown the witch could fall into, and her hand where the maiden touched her tingled.

“But,” the maiden continued, and the witch’s stomach swooped again, in a decidedly less pleasant fashion. “I’m afraid I should be getting home as soon as possible. My parents–”

“Yes, yes, of course–”

“I don’t want them to worry–”

“You’ll leave in the morning, then?”

A pause. Then– “Yes.”

The witch nodded and stood, her face carefully composed as she offered the maiden her hand. The maiden accepted it and pulled herself up.

The witch turned away as the maiden smoothed down her skirts, clearing away the various jars and bottles and sigils that cluttered the floor and doing her best to ignore how warm the maiden’s hand was. _This is getting to be ridiculous_ , she thought to herself as she scuffed away the sigils drawn on the floor. She needed to get a grip on herself.

“I’ll show you to your room, then?” the witch asked when the mess was cleared away. “It’s later than I thought. You must be exhausted, what with the travelling combined with the spellweaving.”

The maiden yawned like a cat, all pink tongue and white, white teeth, and brought a hand up demurely to cover her mouth. “Yes,” she agreed. “Perhaps a rest would be good.”

The witch nodded and motioned for the maiden to follow her, leaving the dim-lit room with its quiet, buzzing magic behind them. 

_This would be a bad time,_ thought the witch as she led the maiden through her house, _to tell her I only have the one bed_. It was the oldest trick in the book. _Oh dear_ , she thought sardonically to herself. _Only one bed. Whatever shall we do?_

The witch, however, prided herself on being above such immature machinations and decided to be an adult. “You’ll be sleeping there,” she said eventually, nodding to the door of her own bedroom. “I’ll be right down the hall. Call me if you need anything.”

The maiden nodded gratefully and thanked the witch tiredly before slipping into the room and closing the door behind her. The moment the door clicked shut, the witch let out a sigh and allowed her careful composure to melt away. Out of the maiden’s sight, the witch sagged against the wall for a second before dragging a hand over her face and slumping off the the living room.

The cat, napping on the hearth of the fireplace, awoke as she threw herself down in front of the fireplace and drew a blanket over her head.

“Mrow?” asked the cat.

“Shut up,” came the witch’s reply, muffled under the heavy woollen blanket.

Instead of dignifying that with a response, the cat padded across the fire-warmed stones until it reached the witch’s lap and curled up, emanating a soft, steady purr and the kind of wordless comfort only a soft, furry creature could provide.

After a few minutes, the witch had composed herself enough to emerge from under the blanket and run a petting hand from the nape of the cat’s neck all the way down to the tip of its tail. The cat purred louder, and the witch began talking in a voice no louder than the soft crackling of the wood in the fireplace.

And while the maiden slept, the witch told her cat of the exact timbre of the maiden’s voice, and of the way her hands could weave magic like the wind, and of how the maiden, this mortal woman with sunlight in her laugh and a soon-to-be husband to please, could take the witch’s heart, quiet and empty and still, in one dark hand and make it dance the most exquisitely painful steps.

~

The witch awoke in something of a mess, which to her consternation had become a bit of a trend recently. She flailed around, arms trapped in the blanket, until she realized the unfamiliar setting and where she was. And, more importantly, why she was in the living room instead of her own bedroom.

She stood up, reeling a bit at the headrush, and looked around. The stillness of dawn had the tiny house in its grips, the only sounds the faint chirping of birds outside as they woke. The cat was gone, undoubtedly to return an hour later with some gruesome trophy or terrified prey animal to catch and release. The witch yawned and crouched down to rekindle the fire, shivering a little in the early-morning chill.

In a bit of a haze, she went about her usual morning routine of washing, dressing, and setting some tea to steep on the newly-crackling fire. The only break from routine was to set two mugs out instead of one.

The maiden awoke some time later, stumbling into the living room with pillow lines on her cheek and her hair a wonderful, glorious mess of curls she had yet to return to their scarf. The witch hid her smile in her mug and nodded towards the other mug waiting on the hearth.

The maiden smiled at her gratefully and wrapped her fingers around the warm ceramic, taking a deep drink of tea. Her eyes widened and she _mmm_ -d quietly in appreciation. They sipped their tea in a companionable silence, leaning against the the counter and listening to the world wake up around them. 

The witch had heard old wives’ tales that spoke of a bond forming between those who worked spells together, one forged in sparks and flickers and thrumming lines of energy flung between bodies, and it was not one easily broken. The witch felt something like that in her wrist when she concentrated, a tapping with the beat of her pulse, and it was stronger than she had expected. It was oddly soothing, like a gentle reminder that she wasn’t alone.

The witch sipped the last dregs of her tea and smiled at how disgustingly domestic this was. How far she had fallen.

The sunlight filtered in through the trees outside and cast a striated glow over them, catching the maiden’s tousled mess of curls and gilding the witch’s pale hands in faint early-morning gold. The maiden tapped her fingernails on her mug with a soft _clink_ and said, “I can see why you stay out here.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s nice out here,” said the maiden, looking out the window at the meadow and the forest beyond. “Quiet. Peaceful. I understand why you live out here, I think.”

The witch looked at her, hands toying idly with the handle of the mug. “It gets lonely, sometimes,” said the witch.

The maiden turned and met the witch’s eyes with a small, heartbreakingly wistful smile. “I know what it is to be lonely,” said the maiden.

The maiden was next to her; the witch could almost feel her skin against hers, a painfully lovely absence, and when the witch turned her head ever-so-slightly to the side there she was, the maiden, close enough to take the breath from her lips and goddess, the witch would _let her_ –

Something _crashed_ on the floor and the witch drew back, startled, as the maiden swore at herself. “I’m so sorry,” the maiden was babbling as she knelt to pick up the pieces of the shattered mug, and the witch stood there dazed for a moment, then knelt to help her.

When the pieces were gathered the maiden swore at herself again, viciously, and the witch said, “It's not that big of a deal, you know, it's just a mug, I can trade for one again the next fall–”

“I know, it's just–” The maiden broke off and looked away. She looked lost suddenly, standing there with shards of broken pottery in her cupped hands.

“What?” asked the witch.

“I just got–distracted.” The maiden turned away awkwardly and set the shards on the counter with a sharp clatter. “I should go,” she said. “I've spent too much time here already.” She very carefully avoided making eye contact with the witch, who looked down.

“I–yes. Of course.” The witch busied herself clearing away the tea, hands shaking ever-so-slightly. Part of her was still there in that moment a minute ago, feeling the maiden’s breath ghost over her lips. _That was entirely too close for comfort_ , the witch thought to herself half-heartedly. This charade was getting hard to keep up, even to herself.

Far too soon, the maiden’s hair was tied back into its scarf, the witch’s sturdy boots were slipped back on, and they were standing at the edge of the meadow, stepping on the toes of the forest.

They stood there in something very closely resembling an awkward silence until the witch was brave enough to break it.

“This spell willwork,” she said, still not daring to meet the maiden’s eyes. “You will find a husband.” She had said it, and it would happen. That was how these things worked.

The maiden whispered a barely-audible “thank you”, the sound nearly devoured by the sounds of the forest rustling through the air. Under the dark tone of her skin, she looked bloodless.

“Hey.” Shocking both the maiden and herself, the witch placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You all right?”

The maiden swayed under her touch, shoulders caving inward as she dragged a slender hand over her face. “ _No_ ,” she whispered. “I'm such an _idiot._ ” She sat down on the ground heavily, folding to her knees, and the witch fell with her.

“What?” The witch knelt beside her, an arm around her shoulders and terrible, frightening emotions racing through her veins. “What’s wrong?”

The maiden made no reply, only hid her beautiful face in her hands and shook.

The witch made a decision then that, in retrospect, may not have been the wisest of moves.

“Look,” she said, throwing all of her cards on the table. “I don’t think, pardon me for saying, but I don’t think you want this.”

The maiden stiffened beside her. “What do you mean?”

“Listen, I–I’m not trying to say that I know what you’re going through, or that I know exactly how you feel–” She was beginning to babble again and she _hated_ it, she _hated_ how this woman made her weak– “but you can stay here. You don’t have to do this. I can–we can–”

She faltered when she saw the look on the maiden’s face, something torn and confused and petrified, and threw all caution to the wind. “Can I?” she asked. The witch reached out her hand to her, palm up, fingers reaching, pulse exposed and vulnerable.

The maiden considered her hand for a moment, face inscrutable, then took it.

The witch closed her eyes and opened herself, throwing open the sizzling, snapping bond between them and letting the maiden in. Her fingers pressed into the witch’s wrist, fingertips resting just above her pulse. She let her see _everything_ , and she felt scoured clean, raw and jitteringly powerful at the same time.

The maiden made a quiet “ _oh_ ”, and her eyes grew wide.

“You see now?” the witch asked, breathless. The maiden nodded slowly, and the witch said all in a rush, “Nothing can hurt you while you are here with me. I can protect you here, I can _help_ you–”

“No.”

The witch stopped for a moment, then– ” _What?_ ”

“ _No,_ ” the maiden said, hair like a lion’s mane and dark brows drawn down over eyes like earthquakes. “I don’t want your help.”

“I–” the witch stuttered. “What–I–”

“I don’t _need_ your help.” The maiden shrugged off her arm almost violently and stood up, leaving the witch on the ground. “I am _sick_ of. . .” The maiden took a shuddering breath and angrily ground the heels of her hands into her eyes.

“I don’t need your help,” she said again, each word angrily clipped short. “I’m _fine_. I _will_ be fine. I don’t need you, I don’t need _anyone_ –”

The witch was standing now, holding out that self-same hand that the maiden had taken only a moment ago, and she looked at her pleadingly. The maiden’s eyes were taut about the edges, glossed with tears, and the witch’s hands ached to touch her face, to smooth away the lines of pain. For once in her life, she allowed it to show on her face, raw emotion stinging in her throat.

The maiden looked at her with those furious, beautiful eyes.

The witch looked back at her, deep blue eyes into brown, and said, very quietly, “Please.”

The maiden glanced at her hand, outstretched and yearning, and then she turned and ran into the trees.

Only when the sounds of her running footsteps faded from earshot did the witch let her hand fall to her side.

She sank to the ground and buried her face in her hands.

~

This was, the witch will admit, easily one of the hardest things she’s done. Even the Vigil, that long, cold, terrifying night so long ago, paled in comparison to this.

Part of the reason why, she hypothesized, was because this was not the kind of pain she could ignore or spell away. This was constant, like someone tapping constantly on her heart, a sickeningly persistent, bruising feeling.

Despite that, she only allowed herself a day to wallow. Two days. Three. Then she got up and went about her duties.

Roving the edges of the forest, scaring away a few lumberjacks, helping a sapling grow towards the sun. . . Her work was never done, and she did her best to throw herself back into it.

But every so often, she’d stop in the middle of what she was doing, clearing ground for her garden in the backyard or singing the snowmelt down from a frozen waterfall, and she’d lay her fingers over the pulse point of her wrist and remember, just for a moment, the warmth of the maiden’s skin against hers.

But she doesn’t mope. Not a little. And even if she sometimes buries her face in a pillow and screams at herself, well.

It’s only her and the cat out here.

So she copes. And she lives. Some time in between, the maiden gets married, presumably. The witch doesn’t care, of course. That's what she told herself. And if she said it, it was true. And that was the end of that.

Until, of course, it isn’t.

One day, early enough in summer that the sun wasn’t too hot, but late enough in spring that the birds were beginning to sing, a man came to the witch’s house.

When he had first arrived at her house, the witch wasn’t home. She was out gathering the young buds of coltsfoot and dandelion while the morning dew was still on them, and only the cat, dozing in some sunlit corner of the house, was there to hear him. Nonetheless, the man, after knocking on the door of the empty house, sat down on the front stoop of her door and rested his elbows on his thighs, twiddling his thumbs with an anxiety not often seen in men of his size.

When the witch returned, the sun was high in the sky and she was humming to herself as she balanced the basket of plants on her hip. When she saw the man waiting at her doorstep her hum turned into a squawk of surprise and she nearly dropped her basket.

The man, hearing her approach, stood up hastily and tucked his hands behind his back. “Lady Witch,” he started. “I. . .” He faltered for a moment, clearly nervous, and she cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Yes?” she asked. “Out with it; I have to get these in water before they wilt.”

“Oh!” said the man. “Here, let me help you with that.” He took the basket from her with big, gentle hands and she smiled at him a little, surprised.

Hands now free, she laid her hand on the weathered wood of the door and closed her eyes for a brief second. The grain of the wood glowed a bright blue and with an audible click, the door opened.

She beckoned the man inside as she stepped over the threshold and he followed her in, eyes wide over the basket.

“So,” she said once they were comfortably seated in her workroom. “How can I help you?” She tried her best to push away memories of the last time she had had a visitor, to no avail.

The man opened and closed his mouth a few times, then apparently decided to just go for it and said, “My wife doesn’t love me.”

The witch blinked at him. She barely restrained herself from saying, “I know how that feels” and went instead with a more professional “I’m sorry. What would you like me to do?”

The man clenched and unclenched his fists in tight, nervous movements. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “Lady Witch, my wife is pining. She does not show it in the way that most people might, but I can tell. She does not smile or sing anymore, and when I sleep I can feel her pacing the house.”

“She is not happy,” the man said. “And I can’t help but think it’s because of me.”

The witch furrowed her brow and leaned forward, a little curious despite herself. “What makes you think it’s your fault?” she asked. “Perhaps she’s just, I don’t know, going through a rough patch.”

The man looked at her then with such guilt in his eyes that despite herself, the witch reared back a little. “I knew her when we were young,” he started, “and she was so happy all the time, with these laughing brown eyes and a smile like the sun.”

“What happened?” asked the witch.

The man shrugged. “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me much of it–only fragments when things became too much for her–but from what I had gathered, her parents were displeased with her.”

“Why?” The witch had a sinking feeling that she knew where this was going and she didn’t like it one bit.

The man shrugged again and stared at his hands helplessly. “We were of an age to be thinking about marriage, and I supposed marriage to some prince or baron wasn’t her wish.”

“What might have been her wish, then?” the witch asked quietly, already knowing (and fearing) the answer.

“Well–well–” He broke off, scratching his head awkwardly, then mustered himself and blurted out, “She doesn’t favor men, Lady Witch, if you catch my drift.” He looked worried, touchingly, as if he was scared that upon hearing that the witch would throw him out of her house and swear to leave his wife to her broken heart. A part of the witch smiled. He was a good man.

“I see,” murmured the witch. She had better be paid handsomely for this–sorting this out would likely be messy for all parties involved.

“You do?” the man asked. He looked absurdly hopeful and she held back a smile.

“Yes, more than you could understand,” she said. “What exactly do you want me to do? Make her sing again? Make you appear more attractive in her eyes? Make her love you?”

It was harder than she had anticipated to distance herself from this case. She may have miscalculated things. She didn’t even know why she was surprised anymore.

The man furrowed his heavy brow, thinking. “No,” he said, “no, that wouldn’t be right at all. We’ve been friends for our whole lives and I–it’d be beyond wrong to bespell her like that.”

The witch waited patiently, letting him gather his thoughts instead of pushing him. 

“I’ve never been one for kisses and glances and roses at twilight, to be truthful,” he said at last. “This was–Lady Witch, this really was something of a marriage of convenience, and, well. I would just like to see her happy again, I think.”

Irritatingly, the witch found herself smiling, just a little. “I think I can do that,” said the witch.

~

The day after the man came to her house, the witch prepared herself for a visit to the town. Towns and witches generally were in a symbiotic, mutually beneficial relationship (she helped them with their problems and they in turn supplied her with the necessities she couldn’t get from the forest), but that didn’t mean she exactly enjoyed going into town. She prefered the people to come to her. 

_Damn this foolish commission_ , the witch thought to herself as she applied powder and kohl. _Damn that man. Damn the maiden. Damn me. This entire business is ridiculous, and any self-respecting witch would be ashamed of themself._ But her hands didn’t stop applying the makeup, and she didn’t stop herself from leaving the house.

Before leaving, she gave her cat explicit instructions to watch the house and garden while she was out. She ran her knuckles over the short soft fur of its ears for luck, and as it purred at her and pushed itself up against her hands, she felt as if the house, at least, was in good hands.

Her dress whispered against her legs as she walked, and the soft crunching of last year’s leaves under her boots were not nearly masked by the soft bright songs of the birds above her head. She took a deep breath of the spring air, just barely sun-warmed and tasting of damp growing things, and did her best to breathe out the anxiety slowly growing in her stomach.

The walk to town seemed shorter than usual, and as she broke the treeline she wondered fleetingly what would happen if she just turned around, unpinned her hair, and went back home.

But then she remembered, with a painfully sweet sharpness, dark brown eyes with an unbearable sadness behind them, and delicate, fine-boned fingers just barely shaking on her wrist, and kept walking.

She had bespelled her makeup before she had left, a simple charm to make unwanted eyes skip over her. It was the closest she could come to true invisibility, but even so, she felt uncomfortably naked stepping foot on town soil.

It was late noon when the witch left to woods, and the fields surrounding the town were full of people, plowing and seeding the earth that had lain fallow over the winter. The witch hurried past them, unnoticed, with light, rushing feet. She passed the man, crouching in the dirt with a palm full of seeds, and waved at him as she went by.

Behind her, he straightened up, cracking his back, and looked around, puzzled. Was someone just there? Or was it just the wind?

The town proper, once she reached it, was largely empty. The only people to be seen were bored-looking store owners and a few pedestrians, wandering around the town square in twos and threes. The witch assumed everyone else was at home or in the fields, or doing whatever simple townsfolk were wont to do. The emptiness calmed her, nearly, and she hurried onward.

Once she was past the town square, she slipped into an alleyway and laid two fingers on the pulse of her wrist. She closed her eyes and concentrated, turning inward and seeking that sparking, singing river of energy. She marked which way the flow tugged her, then, eyes still closed, turned towards the current and opened her eyes.

She stepped out of the alleyway and started walking. No going back now.

The house on the hill was a grand one, all swooping gables and proud, staring windows. Unintimidated, the witch hitched up her skirts and began the long walk up the stairs to the house.

The door’s knocker was forged of iron, a heavy grey thing, and the witch curled her lip at it, deigning instead to knock on the door. Even so, the chill of the metal stung more than she had expected, and so it was to the witch shaking her hand out and cursing quietly that the door was opened.

“Oh, hey,” said the witch, shoving her throbbing hand behind her back. “How’re you doing?”

The maiden, holding the heavy door open with one slender hand, only stared at her from the doorway like she’d seen a ghost.

“Can I come in?” the witch asked.

The maiden stepped aside and allowed the witch in, still staring like a madwoman.

The house was even grander on the inside, with its huge, high-arching ceilings and dark, somber wood paneling. Motes of dust drifted lazily in the air, barely stirred by the draft from the opened door. There was an atmosphere there, of rooms never to be opened and musty, ancient books and stairs curving ever-downward, and the witch wasn’t sure if she liked it or not.

She followed the maiden into the house, eyes wide, and focused more on the oil paintings adorning the walls than her host. The maiden’s back was to her–she couldn’t see her face–but unbeknownst to the witch, the maiden’s hand was rubbing at her wrist.

They ended up in what must have been the sitting room, both of them perched awkwardly on sitting chairs long since gone creaky.

The witch fidgeted in her fine blue dress and resisted the urge to muss up her hair and return it to its former choppy state. Her hands felt too still and she wished fleetingly for her cat to stroke and gentle.

The maiden was the one to break the silence, this time. “Why are you here?” she asked. It wasn’t asked aggressively, just curiously, and her eyes were perfectly inscrutable.

“Your husband asked me to come,” the witch said, arranging herself in a purposefully confident position. It had been a few years since she had played society’s game, but while she might not have been as cool and collected as she had once been, she could still be persuasive if she wanted to.

The maiden’s eyes flicked nearly-imperceptibly down, then back up to meet her eyes. “What do you mean, he asked you to come?” Her voice just barely shook and the witch hurried to reassure her.

“He’s worried about you,” she said bluntly, and the maiden looked down. “Told me you don’t sleep, don’t smile. He told me you aren’t happy anymore. And he wants me to figure out why.”

A violently red flush had begun to spread over the maiden’s dusky cheeks and she said acidly, “Since when were you the town gossip, Lady Witch?”

The witch didn’t move from her comfortable slouch on the chair. “I’m just telling you what he told me,” she said. “And by the looks of it, it’s true.” The witch wasn’t exaggerating. She looked, for lack of a better word, _empty_. Her curls looked dry and brittle, and the only color in her face was an angry flush. Even her clothes were duller, blending into the gloom of the house.

The maiden’s shoulders tightened and her eyes flashed angrily. “How I conduct myself is my business and mine alone, Lady Witch,” she said icily, “and I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of it.”

The witch sighed and abandoned her confident pose, sitting forward with her elbows on her knees. “Look,” she said. “I realize we’ve had this conversation before, albeit under different circumstances–” They both rubbed at their wrists, unconsciously and perfectly simultaneous–”and I’m not about to try and convince you again.”

The maiden said nothing, only watched her with those dark, dark eyes. 

“He just–I just–” The witch fumbled for words. By all accounts she should be used to the feeling of being struck dumb when talking to this woman, but no matter how many times she was put into this situation, she never got used to it.

“The first spell you had me weave–you asked me to find you true love,” she said. “And–” she swallowed hard; defeat still wasn’t easy to admit–”it failed. Much as I hate to admit.”

The maiden’s face was inscrutable, carven from stone.

“And the second spell–you wove that one with me, you felt how strong it was. And it did exactly what you asked of it, it gave you a husband who cared for you, treated you well. But your husband’s not happy. _You’re_ not happy. And I–well, it doesn’t matter how I feel, I’m not here for myself–but we. . .” The witch looked across to the maiden, trying to pour every possible scrap of emotion into her voice. Her throat felt as if it were on fire.

“There are no spells for happiness,” said the witch. “Only actions. And if you have the opportunity to be happy, even if others might disapprove–shouldn’t you take it?”

She didn’t quite dare to meet the maiden’s eyes, but she could hear her take a deep, slow breath. When she finally looked up at her, the maiden slowly uncurled her hands and rubbed absently at her wrist.

“Thank you, Lady Witch,” the maiden said, very quietly. “You may leave.”

The witch, who knew a dismissal when she heard one, left. Even so, she couldn’t resist the urge to steal a glance behind her.

The maiden sat alone in an empty room, dwarfed by the high-backed chair, and no sunlight pierced the dusky murk.

The witch saw herself out, not wanting to stay in a place without sunlight any longer than she needed to.

Once she was out of the town grounds, past the houses and fields and in the quiet dappled calm of her woods, she sat down next to an old mossy oak and let out her breath. It had slipped her mind that spells couldn’t be broken without permission from all parties involved, and she cursed at herself in frustration. Something told her that she was getting neither payment nor an easy conscience out of this day. With a sigh, she stood up and dusted off her skirts, readying herself for the long walk home.

The moon was above the trees when her own little house came into view. Its gentle sloped roof and surrounding garden, vibrantly colored even in the silver wash of the moonlight, looked familiar and welcoming after a day away, and the witch hurried towards it as fast as her tired legs allowed her.

She unlocked the door and let herself in, taking a deep breath of warm air scented with cinnamon and sage. The cat stepped delicately off the warm stones of the hearth and wound its way around her ankles. She bent down to pet it, then, with a tired sigh, made her way to the bedroom.

The cat, in a rare show of affection, leaped up onto her bed with her, only to jump in surprise as the witch collapsed onto her bed with a muffled _flump_.

The cat nosed at her curiously after she hadn’t moved for over a minute and she groaned into her pillow. “Long day,” she mumbled, then yawned. “Just a really, _really_ long day.”

And just like that, she fell asleep, kohl smudged and boots still on.

At her head, the cat settled itself in the familiar Sphinx-crouch of its ancestors, eyes half-closed to watch the flittings of things not there, things that were, and things that would be.

~

Soft, warm light slid over the witch’s face and slowly, she woke up. She stretched leisurely, feeling the joints pop in her arms with a satisfying symphony of cracks. She lay in her blankets lazily staring up at the skylight with half-closed eyes. Clear blue sky looked down at her through the glass and she smiled to herself, still floating in that peaceful emptiness between sleep and wakefulness.

When her stomach grumbled she sat up with a sigh and noticed with a start the boots still on her feet. At that, the events of the previous day came flooding back to her in unpleasant vividness and she dragged a hand across her face with a groan. Did she _really_ go all the way into town just to convince the maiden to reevaluate her life choices? Had she really been _that_ obvious when she talked to her?

The witch buried her face in her sheets, marvelling at how low she had sunk. When she looked up again the kohl from yesterday had rubbed off onto the fabric and she groaned again. She was a mess and so was her life.

_No_ , she told herself firmly at that thought, sitting upright in bed. _No. No more of that._ She was going to get up, wash her face, change her clothes, go outside, and _get shit done._ No more moping. And no more mooning over a girl who doesn’t give two shakes of a cat’s tail about her. She did all she could for her, and now it was none of her business whether she took her advice or not. It was time for her to move on.

The witch sprang out of bed and did just that. It was quite possibly the most productive the witch had ever been–the first day, she cleaned her entire house from top to bottom, gave the cat a bath enjoyed by neither of them, repotted her herb garden. . . The list went on and on, and by the time she collapsed into bed at the end of the day, she was bone-tired and any thoughts of brown eyes and dark curls were firmly pushed to the back of her mind.

When she got up the next day, she did the same thing. She threw herself into her work and willed herself, slowly, painfully, back to the witch of old with a tongue like venom-fed fire and a head solely for her duties and her forest.

And so it went.

Until one day, of course, there came a rap at her door.

The witch looked up from where she sat on the floor counting seeds and frowned at the door. It had been a fair few months since anyone had dared to come knocking on the witch’s door, and to have a visitor during harvest season was rare.

She looked at the cat, perched on the workbench with its tail wrapped primly about its paws. Its ears were pricked forward, but no fear or anger pulled its lips back into a snarl.

The witch heaved a sigh and stood up, carefully setting her seeds aside and making her way to the door. She put her ear to the old wood and listened hard.

Fidgeting feet and quiet, deep breaths, the kind one takes to steady oneself.

The witch huffed and threw an annoyed glance at the cat. Probably some child who had the misfortune to be dared to rap at the witch’s door.

The cat, impassive, merely blinked at her. She rolled her eyes at it and threw open the door, prepared to give that whelp a piece of her mind.

The threats, admonishments, and scoldings she had prepared to say died on her lips when she saw who stood there.

Curly hair. Smooth, dark skin. And deep, rich brown eyes like the earth after it rained, shot through with veins of pure copper.

“Hello,” said the maiden. “May I come in?”

Speechless, the witch stepped aside. The maiden carried a small pack on her back and at that the witch raised her eyebrows but chose not to comment, instead leading her to her workroom in silence.

When they reached her workroom the witch nodded towards the chair. “Sit,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument.

The maiden sat.

The cat leaped down onto the maiden’s lap and purred at her. The maiden cracked a small smile and rubbed its ears. The witch rolled her eyes up at the ceiling, quietly incensed.

She crossed her arms and looked down at the maiden. “What do you want?”

The maiden’s fingers stilled in the cat’s fur and she looked up at her. “A long time ago,” she said, “you offered me a place to stay. I was rather hoping that offer still stood.”

The witch allowed one eyebrow to arch, devastatingly. “May I ask why?” Her tone was sheer ice. Who was the maiden to throw her own words back in her face after insulting her so? How _dare_ she? If the maiden expected a place to stay, she’d better grovel for it.

“I took your advice,” said the maiden, quite simply. “I chose to be happy.”

Despite herself, she was intrigued. “What happened?” she asked.

The maiden shrugged and resumed stroking the cat. “After you visited, my husband–my _friend_ –and I talked. We came to an agreement, worked out a plan, and, when the time was right, I gathered up my things and left.”

“Then you came here.” The witch didn’t phrase it as a question; instead, a statement. It was important for her to know that, for some silly reason, that this was the first place the maiden came to.

The maiden nodded, the cat purring softly under her fingers. The hunted, haunted look in her eyes had gone, replaced instead by something hopeful, steady.

“You know,” said the witch, relenting a little and perching herself on her workbench, “just because you decided to ignore the spell’s work doesn’t mean it’s broken. It’s just going to keep throwing kind, earnest men at you until you either relent and remarry or go mad.”

The maiden nodded again. “I know,” she said. “That’s part of the reason why I came back here.”

Breaking a spell was harder than most people thought. In magic–or in the witch’s practice, at least–spells couldn’t be broken by some counter-spell or severing ritual. No, spells had to be broken by something with power, freely given. Like a secret, or a confession.

Or a kiss.

The witch looked at the maiden. Thought of her eyes and her voice and her quiet, unshakeable strength. Her pulse tapped, tapped, tapped in her wrist, and the witch realized something. A switch had flipped inside her without her consent and she had the feeling that after today, nothing would ever be the same again.

The witch slid off the workbench and stood in a soft rustle of skirts. “Very well, then,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”

Before she could lose her courage, the witch stretched up on her toes and pecked the maiden on the cheek. Her lips tingled and she quickly backed away, not trusting herself to meet her eyes.

When she finally looked back up, the maiden had gone very still and a faint blush had spread across her cheeks.

“There,” the witch said, fighting just a little to keep her voice under control. “It’s done.”

The maiden stared at her. “That’s how you break it?” she asked. “With a–a kiss?”

“Yes.” If the witch said it, it would happen. “It’s done. The spell is gone.”

“But–but–” Her brow was furrowed, her lovely eyes were flashing. “Why would a kiss–”

The witch closed her eyes and looked up at the ceiling. “Things held close to the chest have power,” she said tightly, “be they secrets or feelings or objects. I told you we do not speak lightly of secrets.”

The maiden brought her hand up to where the witch had kissed her. Her eyes widened. “Then that kiss–”

“Yes,” the witch said shortly. _Please, goddess, spare me from any more humiliation_. She had had enough for a lifetime.

“Oh.” The maiden looked like she had been hit in the face with a large and surprisingly wet fish. It was, the witch would not lie, kind of funny. In a sad, ironic way that would no doubt end with the witch alone for the rest of her life.

“Do you need anything else?” The witch couldn’t look at her right now, she _couldn’t_ , not with red shame painting her cheeks, and she clenched her face in futile anger and turned away.

She kept her face turned away as she heard the maiden’s steps, soft and slow and uncertain, head towards the door. Then–goddess help her–she couldn’t help but ask.

“What was the other reason you wanted to come?” she asked, hating how desperate she was to know.

The maiden paused at the door, one hand on the knob. “I–” She could hear her take a deep, steadying breath, then–”I just–wanted to see you again.”

The witch turned around slowly, foolish, deplorable _something_ running through her veins. A glowing warmth was beginning to tingle through her, from the tips of her fingers to her very heart, and she welcomed it, terrified and wondering in equal amounts. That tingling warmth suffused her with–something. Not courage, not exactly. Perhaps madness, and perhaps that was why she took that extra step towards the maiden. The maiden’s hand fell away from the door and they met in the middle, hearts in their throats.

The maiden rubbed at her wrist awkwardly. “I know I’ve been cruel to you,” she said suddenly. “If you only knew–I’m so sorry, I was cruel and stubborn and proud, and I never meant to–”

The witch rushed to reassure her. “No, no, you were scared,” she said quickly, “you were scared and angry and I shouldn’t have pushed you, I shouldn’t have– _fuck_ , this was never supposed to happen, I’m such a _mess–”_ She buried her face in her hands, mortified.

Gentle, strong hands pulled her fingers away from her face and she clutched them blindly, needing to hold onto something. The maiden’s pulse was thundering under her fingers, beating with her own.

“I wish you told me,” said the maiden, and her voice caught in her throat. “I wish–”

“I know,” the witch said. “I know, I’m sorry, but I–”

“Don’t apologize.” Somehow her hands had migrated, one clutching the maiden’s hands and the other just barely cupping her face. The maiden leaned into her touch like a cat, and a stray curl fell over the witch’s fingers. The maiden mirrored her; one dark hand grazed her cheek and her touch set tiny sunfires under the witch’s skin. 

Then in a heartbeat, everything froze. The waterfall of words falling out of her mouth came to a rushing, sudden stop. The maiden’s pulse beat out a thump, thump, thump, and her fingers were steady against the witch’s own. Lazy golden sunlight filtered through the window, setting everything in shades of honey and amber. _She was so warm,_ the witch thought dazedly, then.

Then.

Then they leaned in as one and for a moment, the witch’s world collapsed.

Warmth. The sweet-spice taste of honey and lavender. And above all, the feeling of _rightness_ , a singing, joyous feeling like cresting a hill and seeing the whole world spread out at her feet.

_Yes_ , the witch thought, _yes. Yes. Yes._

When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard, sharing breath, their faces so close together their foreheads nearly touched. The maiden tipped her head forward that extra inch until their foreheads touched, grinning. The witch smiled too, gone, gone, gone.

“Hey,” said the witch, dizzily.

“Hey,” said the maiden, unwaveringly.

They were still holding hands, fingers entwined so tightly the witch feared– hoped?– they could never let go. The maiden’s pulse beat slowly now, steadily, and the witch could feel her own thrum in response.

“Is this. . . okay?” she asked, almost reluctant to acknowledge what had just happened, as if by mentioning it it would disappear. “Are you okay with this? I mean, you just left your home and your friends and family and–”

The maiden reached out and tucked back a stray wisp of hair behind the witch’s ear. Her eyes were infinitely soft as she replied, “I think I’ve been waiting for this for a long time, actually.”

The witch tipped their foreheads again and laughed helplessly, gratefully, joyously, and the maiden laughed too, peals of laughter that resonated in the witch like a bell rung behind her ribcage.

“This,” said the witch at last, “is a far better outcome than you languishing away in that dusty old town and me alone in the woods.”

The maiden, laughter subsiding into giggles and hiccups, said in an offhand manner, “That was a far better kiss than the first one you gave me, Lady Witch.”

The witch raised her eyebrows at that, a small smile playing about her lips. “Are you slandering my kissing?” she asked, mock-affronted. “Are you saying you could do better?”

The maiden gave her a smile then that made the witch’s heart skip a beat, all sly and bold and white, white teeth, and as she pulled the witch in for another kiss, their laughter spilled out from between them, bright as the sunlight that flooded the room.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up at a-flickering-soul.tumblr.com or leave a comment! Thank you so much for reading!


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